(writing) randomness

There was something in the mist – something in the way the trees marched off into milky infinity, fading slowing into the twisting cottony arms of time. An army bound for obscurity. Another lost cause, another forgotten set of heroes. He sat on the bench, pondering the vagaries of the human mind, and I stood behind him, pondering him.

I knew it wouldn’t be long – this mist, for all its innocence, had teeth hiding in it. I could save him, I suppose, but what would be the point? If these hunters didn’t get him, another would. I think he knew that, in a way. That’s why he was here.

And why was I here?

To witness. There always has to be a witness, when one falls. So that when his name was forgotten by his family, his friends, someone would remember him.

He waits, his hands shoved in his sweatshirt pockets, sneakered feet crossed neatly in front of him. The hunters appear out of the mist: tall, dark shapes, all teeth and claws, eyes full of hunger and despair. He could run, but why? They would catch him. So he waits, head bowed, and they slice into him. He doesn’t even scream, at the end, which disappoints them. They leave, and his body slumps across the park bench.

I go to him, then, and gather his body in my arms, reaching for the soul hiding within. It is frightened, but I look nothing like the monsters, and it doesn’t fight me. I pulled it from its mortal clay and open my wings to fly away.

(personal) Taking the day off.

I give up. It's snowing again, and I've already been out to shovel. My ears are still very sore, although not as sore as yesterday. I have hopes of going back to work tomorrow, although my chest is so full of crap that it hurts to just breathe. Took me nearly an hour (I took it very slow) to shovel the driveway (thank goodness it's not coming down in buckets - I just checked and I don't have to go out again yet).

So I'm taking the day off. I'm going to curl up on the couch in the silence with my new cookbook, the magazines that came in over the weekend, and the kitties, and drink tea and read. That's it. I might poke at some writing, but I'm not planning on it. I should do some housework, but again, I'm not planning on it.

I just feel like crap. So therefore, I refuse.

(silliness) Snitched from dragonmyst